Matty and Chloe

We’re now down to the ten day count down before Matty’s fourth birthday. Emotions are running high. This time of year always finds me deep in reflection, lost in my thoughts which are a mixture of happy ones and sad ones. I am thankful for my son. I remember his birth and I recall the time he spent in the hospital. And I think about the other babies who each year are born earlier than expected. I remember that frosty morning in early March when we brought our precious Matthew Nathan home from the hospital. I’d become very close to the mother of Matty’s roommate. We’d sit across from each other, open our white hospital gowns and enjoy our daily sessions of skin to skin contact with our little babies. We’d close our eyes and whisper to our children. She’d often sing to her little girl and I would listen to these beautiful French nursery rhymes sung so softly and so sweetly as Matt lay on my naked chest. Although Matty and little baby Chloe shared a hospital room together, they had little else in common. Chloe had been born far earlier, far smaller and far sicker than our son had been. She had been in that room for a lot longer than Matty had. I think when you’re a parent in the hospital you know never to compare your situation to that of other parents. Not only does everyone have a different story, but we all experience our stories differently. And this is perhaps one of the unexpected blessings of having a child in the hospital. There’s no opportunity to dwell on your own experience because you’re constantly reminded that they’re others going through something more difficult than you. And so it was that we got to take our little Matty home almost a month earlier than Chloe’s parents got to bring her home. I remember the short goodbye I said to Chloe’s mother the day Matty was discharged. I told her that I would continue to think of her and her beautiful daughter and that I would never forget the time we’d spent together. I believe she said something similar to me, but I was far more taken by the expression on her face than by the words she shared with me. I could see in this poor woman’s eyes the helpless and innocent envy of a mother pushed to the limits of her patience. And it was this woman who I thought of as we walked out of the hospital, as we drove out of the car park, and as we spent that first night at home. The injustice of it all left me contemplative and sorrowful. Chloe’s parents had watched us come and go, and they remained utterly incapable of speeding up the process of their daughter’s improving health. Parents of preemies are patient, not just because they know their child might have developmental delays, but because they are programmed and conditioned from the very start to wait patiently for their tiny baby to grow and gain strength at their own rate. I vividly remember standing in front of Matty’s bedroom window that first night home on March 8th 2008, looking out at the snow, delighted to be home with my child, and feeling so terribly sad for all the other parents who had to wait to bring their babies home.

I think what one gains from such experiences of patience is a sense that everything happens in its own time. There is a certain peace in knowing that this introduction to parenthood may not have made me a calmer, or more relaxed or more confident mother, but it has allowed me to more precisely define and understand my role as a mother. Sometimes patience and love are one and the same thing. Patience is selfless. It involves surrendering your own expectations up to a higher force and accepting to simply go with the flow in the most sincere sense possible.

The Wedding

People came from far and wide to witness the marriage of Eleanor and Armando. They were married outside, where the warm southern breeze teasingly threatened the ladies’ elaborate hair dos and where the summer heat mercilessly tested the men’s antiperspirant. The temperature rendered all the guests happily impatient for the garden ceremony to commence and when Eleanor finally walked down the aisle on her father’s arm, Armando’s eyes brimmed with tears of tender joy. Eleanor was radiant in a white organza gown, with Elizabethan collar and full billowy skirt. She wore an exquisite pair of delicate silver beaded sandals. She looked the epitome of beauty. The scene was timeless and romantic. It seemed that time stood still. There was no grand fan fare. There was only the simple and sacred ceremony of a man and a woman becoming husband and wife. The decorations and flower arrangements were not extravagant. The music was not pompous or grandiose. The focus was appropriately completely on the bride and groom. The mood was joyous yet calm and reflective. The ceremony was relatively short and while all the guests took in the beauty of the glorious union, the evening sun shone down and blessed all the guests with a light golden tan.

Their ceremony served as a real reminder of what marriage ceremonies are supposed to be like. They are supposed to be simple and solemn. They are supposed to touch you and leave you spell bound, not because of the ornate decorations or the breathtaking view, but because you feel genuinely honoured to have witnessed the joining of two separate individuals into one couple joined in holy matrimony.

The traffic jam

Today we were stuck in the most awful traffic jam. Some say that life is a classroom. Today is a perfect example of how you learn some pretty profound lessons in the most ordinary places and at the most unexpected and often mundane times. We’d emerged from the car park of one of Dijon’s most popular shopping centres only to find ourselves in a bumper to bumper traffic jam. The tension hit our car almost immediately when Matt said that he needed to go pee pee. Neither of us spoke. Both Jerome and I know better than to engage in conversation when neither of us has anything nice to say. The only possible comment to be made would have been in reference to the consequences of a certain someone’s selfish insistence to go shopping on one of the busiest weekends in France. Today was the first Saturday of the January sales in France. In this county you only have sales twice a year, a few weeks in January and then a few weeks in the summer, and on this particular Saturday afternoon it seemed that the entire population of Dijon was crammed inside this shopping mall looking for good deals and bargains. The atmosphere in our car was strained to say the least. But I couldn’t help but giggle when Jerome answered his mobile phone and told his Canadian friend that we were stuck in jam. Jerome speaks English very well. He went to university in Scotland. However there are a few things he says incorrectly that repeatedly make me laugh. Jerome has never referred to a traffic jam as a traffic jam. He simply says “jam” without using any article at all.

As we slowly made our way out on to the main road it became clear that this was a mighty, horrid monstrosity of a traffic jam. The cars were barely moving forward for as far as the eye could see. Jerome soon started with the bad language which unexpectedly provided Matty with an effective distraction from his full bladder. As Matt sat strapped in his car seat repeating “merde” over and over again, the reality of what lay before us started to set in. We were going to be getting home very late.

I soon noticed that a few cars were speeding past ours and making considerably better progress than us. Jerome explained that these were naughty rebellious drivers using the bus lane to get ahead and they risked a hefty fine should a policeman see them. I began to observe these lawless drivers driving past us. I saw a man with a nose ring and a tattoo and quickly categorised him as being an unruly hooligan. I saw a well dressed businessman in a fancy sports car and thought that he probably considered himself far too important to wait in the traffic like the rest of us folk in our mere modest cars. In yet another car I saw a family who I assumed were immigrants with no respect for French law. For nearly half an hour I observed these drivers in the bus lane. I effortlessly judged them. I glared at them and shook my head at them and thought to myself how much better than them I was until Jerome, after depleting his reserves of foul language, decided to pull into the bus lane and join them. I was horrified. This was not the man I married. I asked Jerome what on earth he was thinking and he glanced over at me, winked and confidently replied that he was unleashing his hidden James Bond.

I underwent an emergency self analysis and came to the unavoidable conclusion that I am a nothing but a self righteous woman who has taken it upon herself to unjustly judge those who dare to deviate from the path of unrealistic permanent perfection. It was a shocking realisation. I am no better than the pretentious and arrogant driver in the convertible, who may not actually be pretentious or arrogant at all. I am no better than the eccentric man with the piercings or the natives who aren’t entirely native or any of the other drivers in the bus lane. Ever since I’ve known Jerome he has commented on how judgemental I am. I’ve just always considered myself gifted when it comes to giving people personal assessments.

I hope this year however I will be trading in this talent for a new one. I hope this year I will learn to see through people’s exteriors and into their interiors, and I hope that I’ll never again forget that we are truly all the same. I hope to spend less time judging others and more time working on myself. This is my new year’s resolution.